


Trevelyan's Charger

by chibideath



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cute, F/M, Horses, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibideath/pseuds/chibideath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor buys herself a present, and Cullen learns more about her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trevelyan's Charger

**Author's Note:**

> My own prompt. I love the relationship between Female Trevelyan and Cullen, but I wanted to give my Inquisitor more of a backstory. So here you go! No sex in this one, sorry. (Maybe another time!)

_Inquisitor,_

_That package you asked me about has arrived. Dennett is already complaining about how much it’s going cost the Inquisition in feed. I think he’s in love. Enjoy._

_-V_

Cullen strode down the steps of the battlements to the lower courtyards. Coming this way occasionally spared him the onslaught of runners coming to deliver reports, ask questions, or demand (politely) information on behalf of the other advisors. He supposed it was his own fault – he’d told them he wanted things straightaway – but he honestly hadn’t anticipated the volume or variety of requests. Sometimes you just needed to hide. And to not get shat on by Leliana’s blasted crows. Besides, there was something comforting about the yard, and it gave him the opportunity to check on the wounded soldiers.

As he walked on towards the kitchen entrance to the keep, a familiar figure of tan and auburn caught his eye, standing by the stables. That was unusual. Not that the Inquisitor didn't like horses, but he’d never actually seen her there before, except to talk with Blackwall. Rainer.

He gave an inward sigh as that common blossom of irritation bloomed and faded. He still didn’t know what to make of the man, but the decision to spare his life had been made, and it did no good to dwell.

Changing course to go to her, Cullen realized he had no idea whatsoever how the Inquisitor – _Arianne_ , he corrected himself, smiling inwardly – felt about horses. He’d seen her ride often enough, capably too, but he put that down to a noble’s training. Yet now here she was, standing before a lithe, sandy colored gelding, smiling and stroking its white dappled nose with a tenderness he’d rarely seen her show. 

He took a minute to admire the picture they made, and revel in the discovery of something new in her that he might be able to share, then walked up beside her.

“New friend?” he asked. She looked up, mildly startled, and threw him a glance that was half surprise and half irritation. _Like startling a panther,_ he thought, and he immediately felt guilty for interrupting what seemed to be a very private moment. But then she smiled, and he relaxed. 

“My new present to myself,” she said in her deep, musical voice. “Being Inquisitor should have _some_ perks.”

“A giant castle isn’t enough?” he said, chuckling. “Should I be worried?”

“My castle still has _holes_ in the roof,” she said, staring at him meaningfully. “And I share it with quite a few people. This is different.” She paused and then murmured, to the horse as much as him, “This is for _me_.”

Something personal was going on here, Cullen realized, and he would have to tread carefully if he wanted to find out what it was. Drawing out Arianne was akin to befriending a wildcat. Try too hard, and at best she’d withdraw, or fall back behind the mischievous humor that served her so well. At worst she’d claw your eyes out. 

“It’s a fine mount,” he said. “I don’t recognize the breed.”

“Free Marches ranger,” she said. “It’s not well known. I doubt they would have had them in Kirkwall. I had to pay Varric a fortune in bribes just to find out where they’re still bred, but it was worth it. He’s beautiful.” That tender smile was back.

“Why go to all the trouble?” Cullen asked. “Dennett has a fine selection of horses.”

“It’s true,” she said, thoughtfully petting the gelding’s muzzle. “Rangers aren’t known for being particularly fast, strong, or fierce in battle, but that’s the beauty of them. They’re wickedly smart, and they can run for ages. Their value is in their cunning and their stamina. They’re not flashy, but in the end they outlive other breeds. They’re survivors.”

 _Like you,_ Cullen thought, except she was all the other things too – brave, strong, and wickedly intelligent. He suspected the horse was as well. He knew he was taking a risk, but decided it was worth it.

“But that’s not why it’s special to you, is it?” he asked gently.

Arianne’s hand paused on the gelding’s muzzle. It stayed there a moment, with a hint of a tremor, and then slowly resumed. Without looking at him, she began to speak.

“My father loves horses. When I was a child, he bought me a Free Marches ranger – a beautiful, spirited mare. I was too small to ride her, but he believed it was important for me to understand the responsibilities of caring for a mount. My mother didn’t approve. Caring for horses was servants’ work in her mind, but my father swore that it was the only way to teach me discipline.”

“He needn’t have worried. I loved that mare. I’d have insisted on caring for her myself even if he hadn’t. Every day I fed and brushed her myself, using a box to stand on until I was tall enough to reach her withers. I got blisters on my hands from cleaning her stall, learned needlework mending tack instead of linens. I got bruises from falling in the yard trying to keep up with her while she exercised. Mother wailed and called me a ruffian, mourning every rip and tear in my clothes. I didn’t care.”

She smiled. Cullen smiled too, envisioning little Arianne on a box reaching up to brush her mare. The image was so sweet and funny he almost felt bad for thinking it. But his smile fell away when hers did, and he knew the story wasn’t finished.

“When I was finally old enough to ride,” she continued, “my father gave me my first saddle. It was almost as beautiful as the horse, made of august ram leather and silverite buckles. I cleaned and polished it every day. If there had been a speck of dirt on it, our horsemaster was to tell my father, but he never had to. I looked after it as carefully as I did her.” 

She paused, pursing her lip.

“One day while I was cleaning it, my hands erupted in fire. It scorched the saddle, the barn wall, and set some straw on fire. It’s a wonder the barn didn’t burn down, but I was able to throw water over the straw before the flames spread.”

“Once I’d gotten over the initial shock, I saw what I’d done to the saddle, and I panicked. Rather than tell anyone what had happened, I buried it in the woods. When my father asked what had become of it, I told him I’d lost it.”

Arianne looked down, her cheek pressed against the gelding’s nose, hand under its chin.

“He was furious. He told me I was a foolish brat, and that if I couldn’t take my responsibilities seriously, I didn’t deserve the privileges that came with them. The next day, he sold the mare – _my_ mare – to a lord on a neighboring estate. I watched her go from the ramparts, and swore I’d win her back somehow.” 

“As it turned out, it didn’t matter. The magic kept happening; flames, small bursts lighting, frost. I tried to hide it, but it was unpredictable, and one day my younger brother saw me freeze a mouse that had startled me in the library. He told my parents.”

“The Templars came a few weeks later. Mother cried and pleaded with them not to take me away. My father… he just looked shocked. He stood with his arm around my mother, ashen faced, and said nothing. Not even when I begged him to stop them.”

Cullen felt his heart twist. He ached to go and put his arms around her, to comfort her, but the yard was populated. It was one thing for the soldiers to see the Commander and the Inquisitor kissing on the battlements. However uncomfortable their gossip might make him, it reminded the men that their leaders were human, and gave them something to laugh about. 

It was another thing to see the Inquisitor showing sadness or despair. The more fainthearted would perceive it as weakness, and morale could be damaged by the resulting rumors, so he had to keep his distance. Brutal, but true. Whether either of them liked it or not, they were leaders, and in public they must seem unconquerable. The best he could do were words.

He started to say something, but Arianne began to pet the gelding’s nose once more, and he didn’t dare interrupt her.

“I was luckier than many mages,” she continued. “The Templars were kind to me, and the mages in the Ostwick Circle became my close friends and teachers. I missed the freedom I had had at home, but at least at Ostwick I was among people who understood what was happening to me. I didn’t have to hide. I wasn’t an outcast. I wasn’t a…freak.” She scowled as she said the word, as if it were both painful and distasteful.

“Eventually I stopped missing home. My family and I grew apart, though my mother and sister wrote sometimes. They didn’t shun or disown me, but neither did they make an effort to remind anyone that I was a Trevelyan, unless it was necessary.” Arianne smiled wryly. “Funny how things turn out.”

 _Sod morale_ , Cullen thought. He stepped behind her and enveloped her in his arms, shielding her from the yard and all its watchers. As far as they were concerned, they were just having a lovers’ moment. She wrapped her arms around his and leaned back into his chest.

“It could have been so much worse,” she whispered. “I could have burnt down the whole barn, or the mare, or myself. I could have been possessed – made to kill and torture my family or friends. So many mages die young, and so many experience far worse than what I went through. Yet still, sometimes I all I can think about is how much I miss that damn horse. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not foolish to miss the things we love,” Cullen murmured, hugging her tighter. “Especially those we loved as children, when our hearts are purest.”

Arianne let out a small sigh. “No Chantry sermons, Cullen, please.”

“Alright.” He kissed her cheek. “Either way, you’ve found her a worthy successor.” 

“That I have,” she said, her smile returning. She turned to face him, placing her hands on his neck and cheeks. “And I’ve learned that horses aren’t the only true friends out there. Some people are worth it too.”

“Some,” he said, smiling that half smile she loved. They kissed, briefly. 

“Will you be alright?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes,” she said, stepping back. “I’m going to saddle up and put him through his paces. I’ll see you later.”

“Very well,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Until then.”

Cullen left the yard, perceiving no one as he turned over an idea in his mind. As soon as he was out of earshot, one of the stable boys leaned towards one of the message runners.

“Did you see that?” he asked, quietly.

“Wot?” his companion replied, irritably. “The Commander and the Inquisitor, making lovlies? They do it all the time.”

“No, you didn’t see!” the stable boy insisted. “’e was _comforting_ her, ‘e was. I fink she was sad! What could make the Inquisitor sad?”

“DESMOND!” Dennet barked, so loud the boy nearly jumped out of his skin. “Get back to work or I’ll have you shoveling nug shit until the next Blight, you hear me?!”

Before he could run to obey, the horse master grabbed the boy’s arm.

“And if you repeat one word of what you just said,” he growled, leaning in menacingly, “I’ll flay you ‘til you have less skin than a darkspawn, understood?”

“YES SIR!” Desmond squealed and ran for his life, unaware that the horse master would do no such thing. The messenger raised his eyebrows.

“What are you looking at, crow?” 

“Nuffing sir, nuffin at all.”

“Good. See that it stays that way.” Dennett moved off. “No bloody respect,” he grumbled to himself. 

~

A few weeks later, Arianne found a canvas-wrapped package hanging on the ranger’s stall. Her breath caught as she recognized the shape of it. Undoing the wrappings revealed a beautifully polished Marcher-style saddle, stamped on both flaps with the Trevelyan coat of arms. Running her fingers along it, she felt ridges in the leather. Examining it closely, found it was made from wyvern scales, not ram leather. _Fire resistant,_ she realized, grinning.

A note was fixed to pommel. She unrolled it, immediately recognizing Cullen’s tight, precise script.

_Every worthy horsewoman needs a good saddle, and every hero needs her companions. I hope this one fares better than the last._

_All my love,_

_Cullen_

 

 


End file.
